


...and there's all the love they bear us.

by BiP



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 03:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP
Summary: Aziraphale gets sick and can't miracle himself well; Crowley cares for him.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 91
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019, Hurt Aziraphale





	...and there's all the love they bear us.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver_sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/gifts).



> Pinch hit for GO Holiday Swap; I'm so sorry I *almost* made it before Epiphany, at least!

Crowley sat on the steps of his villa, staring out to sea as the sun set. The sky was all in violet and indigo and flaming orange, with a few early stars, and the air smelled like jasmine and the coming night - so much better than inside. He took a deep, unnecessary breath, and another, and another, clearing his lungs and his head. 

A cry of pain came from inside the house, breaking the silence of the evening. He ached to hear it. 

Crowley took one last breath, straightened his spine, put his hands on his knees, and got to his feet. 

He could do this. He would do this, for his angel. 

  
  


THREE DAYS EARLIER

Aziraphale was late. 

Crowley sat at their regular table at the taverna, tapping his dice (they played weekly if they were in the same town together for more than a little while), sipping his wine and being as patient as a demon could be. He whiled away the time inconveniencing the shopkeepers and aristocracy; loosening a sandal strap here, upturning a cart there, while keeping a watchful eye out for a head of white-blond curls. That kept him amused for a while, but only half of his mind was on it - the rest was worrying. Aziraphale was so rarely late. 

Finally, in a rush of motion he stood and strode out the door, hoping to - well, he wasn’t sure what. Head for where he knew the angel was staying, he guessed. He just couldn’t stand staying still any more. 

He had barely made it out the door when the angel appeared, weaving like he was already drunk, and stumbled directly into Crowley. 

“What the hell, angel, did you start without me? Where have you been?” He didn’t smell like wine, but he was clearly not steady on his feet. 

Aziraphale choked out a short laugh, which sounded more like a sob. 

“I’m so very sorry - I was on my way here but Upstairs had different plans.”

“What?” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulders, keeping him upright, and stared wildly around. “Is this safe? What if they see us together?” He quickly lead Aziraphale in to the dark of the taverna, looking over his shoulder to make sure no other angels, arch- or otherwise, would suddenly appear. 

Aziraphale collapsed onto the stool the moment Crowley let him go, tilting wildly before he managed to grab the table and pull himself upright. The angel was pale - paler than normal, even, and a light sheen of sweat was beginning to bloom across his forehead.

“Aziraphale, what is this all about?” Crowley hissed. 

“I was...reprimanded,” he said quietly. 

“What?” He knew he was repeating himself, but it seemed like the only thing Crowley could say. 

“There’s an illness starting in the city, and you know it’s my duty to help the sick, but - I, I apparently have been saving too many, “upsetting the balance,” they said, and that this plague was meant to happen. They took away my immunity, and I’m not allowed to use any miracles. Gabriel seems to think it will slow me down.” Aziraphale set his head on his arms, apparently exhausted by the rush of words. 

Crowley stared at him, horrified. Heaven was far too fond of sending plagues, in his opinion, and if they didn’t want Aziraphale to assist humanity then maybe they should direct their plagues to where he wasn’t! But then, that made as much sense as an apple tree you couldn’t eat from in the middle of a garden, he supposed. 

“He’s right, of course,” Aziraphale continued. “I’ve been working with these people, Crowley, and I know how this is going to play out.” He shivered a little. “I’m going to get very very ill, and I - I’m sorry to bother you, but I - I don’t want to be alone. Could I, I mean, would you mind if I-”

“Spit it out, angel,” Crowley said, still swinging wildly between outrage and confusion. 

“Could I stay with you?” 

If Crowley could have, he would have blinked. This was far beyond the tentative Arrangement they had begun, but he knew he could never refuse Aziraphale - not anything, really, and especially not this. He had seen his share of the sick and it was not pretty. He almost said ‘what??’ again but stopped himself just in time. 

“Of course, angel, but - couldn’t I just, you know, heal you myself?” Crowley wiggled his fingers.

“That would be so much easier, but - no, they’ll be monitoring my physical form more closely than that - not so close that they’ll know  _ where _ I am - you know Gabriel would never come near me while I was actually ill, far too much gross matter - but they’ll be watching  _ how _ I am. No, I’m afraid I just have to tough it out, as they say.” The tremor in his voice belied his brave words. 

It set Crowley’s mind a little easier, though - he did so hate having to watch over his shoulder constantly; Hell was hard enough without adding Heaven to the mix. He sighed, and thought of what the next few days would entail, and hoped his angel would survive. Hell, he hoped they both survived. 

“No time like the present, then. Do you need anything from wherever you’ve been staying?” he asked, trying for practicality.

“No, it’s too far, and I honestly don't think I’ve got that much strength in me, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. 

My dear. That was new. 

“Well then, let’s away to my place and get you settled, shall we?” Crowley said, keeping his tone light. He rose, taking Aziraphale by the hand and pulling him to his feet. 

They made it to the villa without a demonic miracle or Crowley physically carrying the angel, but it was close. He was clearly exhausted - Crowley imagined Aziraphale had been working non-stop and expending all of his energy in miracling people well, which meant this illness would hit hard and fast. 

“I’m so sorry to put you out, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, as they arrived. “If you’d just be so kind as to show me to a bed-“ 

Crowley teakettled a little bit - he was only, well, only a demon after all - but just for a second. “Right in here, angel. Soft sheets and a fantastic view of the Aegean Sea; nothing but the best for you.” 

Aziraphale tried to fall into the bed, tunic and all, but Crowley stopped him gently. “Wait a moment, angel. We should get you clean, first; you’ll rest easier.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, I know you’d probably like your privacy, but-”

Aziraphale understood instantly. “No, not to worry on my account; you’ll see it all before this is done, anyway. I could put things away, as it were, if it makes you more comfortable; I think I have that much energy left.” 

“Not necessary, angel. Just wanted to be clear before we started. Let’s head into the bathing room now and clean some of the dust off you before you get settled.”

In the bath, Crowley stripped Aziraphale efficiently and helped him slide into the warm water. He poured his best smelling soaps into a cloth, orange blossom and jasmine, and washed Aziraphale gently, wiping away the dust and sweat from the work he’d been doing and the rising fever. 

“Oh, that feels heavenly; I wish I were awake enough to enjoy it more.” Aziraphale sighed as Crowley rinsed his curls. The bath had felt so nice on his overheated skin, but now he was beginning to shiver again. Crowley pulled him upright and dried him, then led him back to the bed and got him settled, leaning up against the pillows (many of which hadn’t been there this morning).

“One more thing before I let you sleep, angel,” he said, holding up a broth he had half-miracled and half-made - vegetables from his own garden here at the villa, with lamb broth he hadn’t had on hand until a few minutes ago, all heated with a little demonic energy. “I know you don’t want it, but let’s get some food into you before you - well, while you’re still able.” 

“Oh, Crowley, please don’t-” Aziraphale turned his head. “I really don’t think I can.”

“Nope, angel, I insist. You’re going to need it before this is done, and you know it. Come on, now.” He held the cup up to Aziraphale’s lips. The angel’s cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were still clear, and he took a small sip. 

“Crowley, this is lovely, did you make this yourself?” He took the cup in his hand, and sniffed with more interest. “There are fresh herbs in there!”

“Nothing special, angel, just a little of this and that.” Crowley brushed off the compliment. 

“Well, it _is_ special, and when I’m - when I’m feeling better, you’ll have to do more than broth for me.” Crowley noted the hitch.

“You will get better, angel. I promise.”

“Don’t, please. What comes will come. I just appreciate not having to be alone for this,” Aziraphale said, passing the half empty cup over to Crowley. “For now, though, I’m truly very tired.”

He settled himself down in the bed, and took Crowley’s hand. “Thank you, again.”

“Shut up, angel.” 

After that, there was very little to do but watch Aziraphale sleep, soundly at first and then more and more fitfully as the disease progressed. When he began to shake from fever, Crowley cooled him with wet cloths and miracled the bed under him dry, and sent a flick of _‘take that’_ at Gabriel and his ‘no miracles’ rule. When he cried out in pain as his joints ached, Crowley sat next to him and soothed him as best he could, lightly massaging the areas that hurt most. When he began to vomit blood, and worse, Crowley kept him clean and tried to ignore the bruises that appeared almost instantly on Aziraphale’s pale skin wherever he touched him. But the worst by far were the hallucinations that accompanied the fever. 

Crowley had settled into a light doze and came out of it in an ice-water panic at Aziraphale’s voice. “Please, Gabriel, I beg you, release me from this, please!” Torn between fight and flight, it took Crowley a few moments to realize that the archangel was not actually in the heavily warded villa. By the time he shook it off, Aziraphale was sobbing incoherently. 

His tears were blood. 

The next time, Crowley was prepared, and he held Aziraphale as tightly as he could while the angel struggled to rise from the bed and begged God to hear him, and Crowley cried along with him. 

He cried again, quietly, sitting outside on the villa steps, after Aziraphale recognized him in the worst possible way. If he had had his power it would have been much more dangerous from Crowley; as it was each word was a dagger, but they were wounds he would survive much more easily than a smiting. He knew Aziraphale would survive, as well, and he hoped he wouldn’t remember much.

The angel’s voice had been hoarse but determined, and he fought weakly. “Crowley, you cannot keep me here. You must release me at once. I thought we were friends, why would you hold me like this?”

_ “Please let me go.” _

_ “Please, Crowley.” _

_ “I thought we were friends.” _

The days bled one into another, and Crowley gave up on dozing; he had too many nightmares of what he might find when he woke. He concentrated instead on keeping the air in the room as fresh as possible, and keeping Aziraphale clean and cool without miracles. Next time he met Gabriel, he was going to show him just what that entailed. In fact, daydreaming about revenge on Gabriel provided quite a pleasant distraction.

Finally, finally, one afternoon, Aziraphale opened his eyes and called his name. Crowley, sitting in the window, called back to him, hoping that maybe this time he would remember who and where he was, and more importantly, who Crowley was. 

“Crowley, my dearest, how long has it been?” His voice was rough and shaky, but undeniably coherent. 

“It’s been seven days, angel,” he replied, with a small sigh of relief. He would think about that ‘dearest’ later, maybe, and the ‘my dear’ from before. After he’d had a vat of wine and a week to himself. 

Aziraphale made a noise that was half laugh, half sob. “Gabriel. Nothing if not predictable.” He winced, and grabbed his stomach. “I feel dreadful.”

“It’s been a long week. Let me bring you something to drink? Think you could keep down a little wine?” Crowley asked. 

“I believe I ought to try, at least,” Aziraphale replied. He pushed back the sheet and tried to swing himself upright, and Crowley practically teleported back to the bed to catch him before he fell. “Oh, it appears I’m not ready for getting up yet.”

“You think, angel?” Crowley huffed. “Please just stay still and let me help you.”

“You’ve done plenty of that, I imagine.” Aziraphale said quietly. 

“Yes, and I’m prepared to do more; you’re weak as a kitten.” Aziraphale let himself be bundled back onto the bed, pillows propped up behind him so that he could sit up. “Now just stay put for a minute before you head out to upset Gabriel’s precious balance again.” He handed Aziraphale a cup and made sure he had the strength to hold it on his own before he moved back to the window. 

“I do hope I haven’t been too much of a bother to you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sipping at the wine, which was watered and warmed with spices. 

“Not at all, angel. You only tried to smite me once,” he said, trying to sound light and failing miserably. 

“Oh, I didn’t! Did I? How dreadful of me!” Aziraphale was clearly distraught. 

“No, no, angel, of course not. I was only joking, I’m sorry. You were fine,” Crowley rushed to correct his mistake. 

“Why don’t I believe you?” Azirpahale asked. 

“I’m a demon, I’m supposed to lie,” Crowley replied. 

“Not usually to me.” He sounded so sad, it broke Crowley’s heart, or would have if he’d had one. 

“Well, sometimes you don’t need to know everything, angel. How’s that?” Crowley really hoped Aziraphale would let it go; he truly didn’t need to remember any of this week if he could avoid it. Except-

“What will you tell Gabriel?” Crowley worried. 

“The truth - that I really don’t remember much after he left me last week.” Aziraphale said. 

Well, that would be convenient. “I don’t know how much of a lesson that’s supposed to be, then,” Crowley pointed out. 

Aziraphale sounded positively snippy when he replied. “Well, he should have thought about that before he set up this ridiculous plan.”

“You’re clearly perking up, angel,” Crowley laughed. “Miraculous healing powers back in place?” 

“Oh, no, my dear, I think it’s just your excellent care. I am feeling peckish, though - is there more of that lovely broth I recall, and perhaps some good bread?”

And Crowley knew his angel would be just fine. 


End file.
